


Always

by believeinmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Character Death, Deathfic, M/M, Male Slash, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Character Death, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1284883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinmycroft/pseuds/believeinmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Not like this … Never like this.</i><br/>In which John dies, and Sherlock has to piece his life back together.</p><p>*This fic has been discontinued until further notice.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> An in-universe AU, with the ending of The Reichenbach Fall changed. Most of the story takes place post-Reichenbach. 
> 
> Loosely inspired by the novel _You Don't Even Know_ by Sue Lawson.

**Prologue**  

Sherlock had never thought it would end like this. Standing over a hospital bed, with the metal of the rail cool beneath his fingertips and the fluorescent lights casting soft shadows over _John's_ face, and him looking at his best friend, cold and dead and pale before his eyes. He had never imagined John dying like this. Maybe by Moriarty’s hand, yes. Maybe by some deranged killer during one of their cases, yes, he’d imagined _that_ happening quite often. But not like this. Not from some little accident, not from a man with a gun looking for some quick money in a dark alleyway, no …

_Not like this._

John had survived being shot before.

So why couldn’t he survive now?

* * *

 

 

**Chapter One: Awakening**

 

_12 Months Later_

 

He is in darkness. He is lost, fumbling, searching for something, anything to grab onto, looking for an anchor in the endless night. His hands are reaching out, grasping, and his voice is calling out for help, his throat raw with the effort. With all the hope remaining in his body, he reaches out for something. He reaches out for John.

But he finds nothing. There is only the unending black, and him, curled up, sobbing, in the murky corners of his consciousness.

 

* * *

 

He hears the woman before he sees her. Her voice is soft, gentle, quiet, and as he listens, the rest of the noises in the room slowly become louder, like all the sound in the world is a spinning record, and someone is gradually turning up the volume.

He hears quiet, rhythmic beeping, unending; a soft murmur of numerous people talking, somewhere outside the room; the shuffle of footsteps down the hallway; a door occasionally slams. The scent of flowers is almost pungent.

‘I think he’s awake.’

His eyes flicker open, slowly, and then he sees the woman standing over him, a girl, actually, with dark brown hair pulled into a tightly woven plait and a concerned expression and lack of sleep darkening her features. Her face is familiar, but it is not until she slips her hand into his and whispers ‘Sherlock’ that he recognises her.

‘Molly,’ he croaks. His mouth is dry.

‘Sherlock,’ she whispers again. And then she is crying, tears rolling down her face.

‘Oh god,’ she says, lowering her head and sniffing loudly, her hand clenched tightly around his. ‘I thought … we thought we’d lost you.’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’

She lifts her head and stares incredulously at him for a second, before a broad grin stretches across her face. Suddenly she is giggling and leaning back in her chair. Her hand is still wrapped around his.

‘Still the same old Sherlock then?’ She says, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Still the same old Sherlock.’ He says.

He is about to ask where John is, but then he remembers, and abruptly all of the pain in the world is shooting through his stomach, his skin, his entire body and all he can do is close his eyes and lean back and use all of his willpower not to cry in front of _her._

She squeezes his hand, and in the blackness behind his eyelids, he hears her ask if she should leave him alone for a minute.

He nods. The chair grates as she leaves the room.

He knows she’ll be back in a minute, probably with some doctors or nurses, and he needs to get a grip on himself before she does.

With the well-practiced approach of someone who has had to do this so many times before, he seizes the memories, he takes the feelings, the pain and anguish and sorrow that threaten to overwhelm him, and he squashes them down until he feels nothing. He feels nothing. He _is_ nothing.

That thought gives Sherlock something close to peace. Something close enough that he can open my eyes and watch as the doctors walk quickly into the hospital room and bustle around him without feeling much at all. Close enough that he can catch Molly’s eyes from where she stands awkwardly against the far wall and see her smile without tears springing to his eyes. Close enough that when the thought of John crosses my mind, he does not break down.

Something occurs to him. He reaches out and grabs the doctor’s sleeve, glancing at his badge. _Dr. Jackson_.

‘What is it?’ He is soft-spoken, gentle, his eyes searching Sherlock's face.

‘How long was I out for?’ 

Dr. Jackson looks away, and then down. Frustration builds inside of him, but then Jackson speaks, awkwardly laying his hand over Sherlock's where it rests on his arm.

‘You were in a coma for twelve weeks.’ He finally admits, his voice gentle. ‘Everyone was very worried, and honestly, it’s remarkable that you managed to wake up at all.’ He pats Sherlock's hand awkwardly and he pulls it away, suddenly uncomfortable at the feel of skin on skin.

‘Twelve weeks …’ I murmur. ‘Almost three months. A quarter of a year.’

‘Yes,’ Jackson says. ‘An awfully long time to be detached from the world.’

He starts to talk about some tests the nurses are going to do, but Sherlock is already completely lost in his thoughts.

_Twelve weeks. Three months. Ninety days. Approximately two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours. An awfully long time to be detached from the world, yes indeed._

The nurses carry out their tests and he is quiet, submissive to their pokes and prods and endless questions. It feels like an eternity before they leave and he is left alone with Molly, but it is probably more like an hour. Molly spends the entire time watching him, as though if her eyes leave him for a second, he will disappear into thin air.

Sherlock observes her face as she observes his, noting the dark bags beneath her eyes _(late nights spent under harsh fluorescent lights)_ , the oiliness of her unwashed hair _(no time to wash, pulled into a plait for ease)_ , the worry lines between her brows ( _countless nights spent fretting, pacing the room, shouting, crying)_ , the spots of gravy gone unnoticed on her rumpled shirt _(shirt has been worn many times, unironed, food eaten in a haste elsewhere, desperate to get back to this room),_ and above all, the relief present in her eyes. The kind of relief that betrays the pain and worry of countless nights spent, hunched, near his bedside.

As he observes her, a new picture of Molly begins to form. The picture of Molly from before: a socially awkward, clever, annoying, gullible, unfortunate girl slowly evaporates, and the picture of this new Molly begins to fill his conscious. _Molly the worrier. Molly the loyal. Molly, the girl who once told him of her father’s death with a sad, distant look in her eyes._

_Molly, who spent three months of her life waiting for Sherlock to wake up._

* * *

 

When he returns from the labyrinth of his thoughts some time later, the room is empty save for Molly. She drags up a chair and sits down.

‘How are you feeling?’ She says, smiling at him. She has a coffee in her hand that she sips from occasionally.

‘Fine, thank you,’ he mutters. ‘Marvellous. Brilliant. Better than ever.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody sarcastic,’ she says, taking a sip of the coffee.

I raise an eyebrow, amused. ‘When did you get so …’

‘Tough?’ She suggests. ‘Witty?’

‘ _Different_ , is what I was going to say.’ He replies slowly.

She shrugs, looking down at her coffee and swirling the cup slowly. ‘Probably since I had to spend twelve weeks of my life waiting for you to open your eyes.’

‘Molly, I-’

‘No, Sherlock, it’s fine,’ she says, reaching out and placing a hand over his. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’ She drains the rest of the coffee and throws the empty cup into the bin next to her.

‘You tired?’ She says.

Sherlock nods, only just now realising how exhausted he feels. He yawns widely.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘You can sleep now. I’ll be right here when you wake up.’

He nods again, leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes as she gets up to turn the light off. The pillow is surprisingly soft and he sinks into it, relishing the sensation.

Molly’s hand is warm as she rests it on Sherlock's again. Sleep beckons him like an old friend and he sinks into its embrace.

His last thought before he slips under is a single word.

_John._


End file.
